


There's No Need for Excuses (just the things you gotta do)

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Sexual Content, public sex kink, sex in laundry rooms if that's your thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it starts, it’s not like she planned it. They met in a laundry room, for fuck’s sake; she hadn’t even known that actually happened. She’d been thinking about sorting her whites and colors, and how many loads thirteen quarters could buy—sex had been the last thing on her mind.</p><p>Or, Clarke meets Bellamy in a laundromat and they hate each other instantly--but that doesn't stop them from getting it on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When it starts, it’s not like she planned it. They met in a laundry room, for fuck’s sake; she hadn’t even known that actually _happened_. She’d been thinking about sorting her whites and colors, and how many loads thirteen quarters could buy—sex had been the last thing on her mind.

And yet there she was, pressed up against the door of a twenty-four hour laundromat, with his fingers buried so deep inside her his palm was cupping her mound. She kept her face against the wood of the door, partly to be able to hear if anyone was coming, and partly so that he couldn’t see how fucking _wrecked_ she was. For his part, he kept his face pressed tight in her neck, lips moving against her skin. He was mumbling, but not in English, and she hated that it made her even hotter.

At the end he looked so pleased with himself, saying _Same time next week,_ that she got angry and snarled _Fuck you_ , grabbed her still-damp laundry, and left. That night as she showered, she found three hickeys stamped in the slope of her shoulder. They’d be easy enough to hide in the morning, but she’d know they were there, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to concentrate.

She strung up a clothesline from window to window in her living room, and when Raven showed up and had to duck under a pair of jeans, she said _I thought you were doing laundry tonight?_

Clarke just shrugged and said _The dryers were all taken._ And yeah, it’s a shitty lie, and her friend could see right through it, and she was pretty sure that even with the shower, she still smelled a little like sex.

Raven poked one of the hickeys in the morning, over cereal. Clarke just shrugged her off and snapped, _Don’t you have your own apartment?_ Raven smirked into her Cheerios. Clarke accidentally-on-purpose elbowed her as she left the room.

           

She doesn’t mean to go back to the laundromat, but it’s the nearest one and after a twelve-hour shift, she comes home to find she’s out of clean underwear. It’s not surprising, seeing as she’d been avoiding the chore for the last two weeks, but at three in the morning it’s just not something she really feels like dealing with.

She doesn’t bother changing out of her blood-soaked scrubs in the apartment; she doesn’t have anything else to wear, and no one’s going to be washing clothes at this hour, so she figures she’ll just toss them in with the load and wait out the machines in her underwear. She brings her bathrobe just in case.

Of course he’s there. He’s reading some sort of classical literature, and the print’s too small for her to make out if it’s in English, but a girl can dream. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and shower shoes. His feet are bare and there’s something so strange about seeing them, so she looks away.

He catches her staring, because why wouldn’t he. He’s already smirking, the ass, and Clarke sort of hates that he manages to look enticing even in the world’s least sensual clothes. She’s wearing a pair of scrubs the color of mint toothpaste, with a collection of stains from coffee and viscera. She’s not sure when she last washed her hair. She hasn’t brushed her teeth since this morning, and she just _knows_ she smells awful.

He makes a point of tossing the book away slowly, and stretching as he stands up. His shirt rises with his shoulders, and she can see a sliver of tanned skin between his navel and the waistline of his pants. His hipbones are sharply defined, and there’s a patch of dark hair leading down. She tears herself back to his eyes, and he’s practically laughing— _great_ , so he saw that, too.

She hates him. She hates him more than she thinks she has a right to, since she doesn’t even know his name, but whatever.

She says, _Those shoes are stupid,_ because she can’t come up with anything else. He snorts, and it’s not an all-out laugh, but it’s something, and she feels a little good about it.

 _Your scrubs are dirty,_ he says back, and as far as insults go it’s not very cutting, but she scowls anyway. And then she rips them off, tossing them into the machine, because that had been her plan to begin with and she sure as hell wasn’t changing it for _him_.

He has her up on the washer within seconds, and she gasps—at a lot of things, like the cold of the metal against her skin, the feel of it vibrating beneath her thighs, the feel of _him_ between her thighs, his hands framing her neck and his _mouth_ —

She wrenches his lips from hers, her fists vicious in his hair, and he whines like a goddamned dog. She licks her lips, and watches as his eyes track the movement. _Ah_ , and she smiles victoriously, so she wasn’t the only one staring.

 _My underwear’s dirty too,_ she murmurs, and then he’s practically tearing it off her, she’s pretty sure she heard something rip, and his pants are down and she’ll never make fun of sweatpants again because elastic is _so_ much less of a hassle than the buttons on jeans.


	2. Chapter 2

So sex in the laundromat becomes an actual _thing_ , and Clarke never runs out of clean underwear anymore, and her skin has never looked better, even her coworkers said so, and she still doesn’t know his name or why he does his laundry at three in the morning, and he never asks which hospital she works at or why she decided to go into medicine. It’s relaxing, in a way, and not just the average amount of stress relief that sex offers. It’s nice to have a corner of her life that only she knows about, and that she doesn’t need to explain or defend or psychoanalyze. He never asks for her number. She never suggests they go for coffee just up the road.

Raven asks, the way she always does, in a blunt way that tries for apathy but is really her being concerned. Specifically, she asks, _So who’s the new fuckbuddy?_

Clarke shrugs because so far she hasn’t questioned it and she’s not about to start now. _Just someone new. It’s casual._

Raven gives her a Look that says, _be careful_ , but otherwise lets it drop. After basing their friendship on being cheated on by the same boy, it's hard to discuss love lives. Clarke knows there’s a coworker that Raven likes, in that new he-thinks-I-hate-him-and-don’t-you-dare-tell-him-otherwise sort of way. And now Raven knows Clarke has something casual, with someone new. Clarke supposes it isn’t really omission, if she doesn’t really know about it, herself.

She knows a few things, of course. She knows he rolls his towels instead of folding them, and that he carefully folds all of his clothes before placing them carefully in his duffel bag. She knows he has three tattoos; the first on his lower right side, where the waistline of his pants sits, that reads _Aurora Borealis_ in fancy-tattoo script. He has a plain black circle settled on his chest, above his heart, and on his left shoulder blade is something in a different language. She thinks it might be Latin, but her grip on the language has grown shaky out of school.

She knows he always has a book with him, usually well-worn with creases in the spine, and usually a classic. She’s seen him now with _The Count of Monte Christo_ , _The Illiad_ , and _A Portrait of Dorian Gray_.

 _You only ever read tragedies,_ she mentions once, clasping her bra as they redress. He looks surprised, and then, suddenly, _bashful_. It all at once makes her feel powerful, and hot. She frowns.

 _I guess I’m somewhat of a masochist,_ he jokes. She shrugs on a pair of gym shorts and tank top, and tries not to feel too smug when she catches him glancing at her chest.

 _Maybe you’re just a romantic,_ she says. And she means it to sound funny, but _fuck_ if it doesn’t come out like a thoughtful insight, instead. He looks at her, caught somewhere between surprise and interest, and she practically runs out.

So she knows a few things, probably more than she should, _definitely_ more than she wants to, but at least they’re still nameless. She tells herself this several times. _We don’t have names. He doesn’t know me. I can still stop it at any time. I can just stop going, if I want to._

But of course, she doesn’t want to. And that’s what pisses her off, most.

She gets the feeling that he’s only gone along with the no-name thing until now because he’s been waiting for her to _be ready_ , or something equally dumb. But, of course, eventually he asks because it’s normal to know the name of the person you’re regularly fucking, and because he’s a romantic, she’s said so herself.

But nothing about what they’re doing is normal, so she isn’t sure why this should be. And she’s stubborn, so there’s that. And there’s the fact that he _pisses her the fuck off_ , and so whenever she can frustrate him back, she jumps at it. Usually that means going down on him until he’s swearing in another language, or stripping across the room so slowly that she can practically _feel_ him bubbling over.

But today it means this; staring him down with no pants on, and his are around his fucking ankles but he still manages to look serious, and he was inside her less than a minute ago but then he’d whispered, _I still don’t know what name to call out,_ and she’d laughed because, seriously?

But then he’d pulled out and now they were having this fucking ridiculous stare down when all she’d wanted was an orgasm, so she’s a little bitter about that too.

She knows what they’re doing is fucked up, everything about it. It’s fucked up and irresponsible, and she doesn’t even _know_ him, doesn’t know if he’s married with kids or if he’s a serial killer or if he’s riddled in STD’s. They always use condoms, but it’s not like that’s a fool-proof method and she’s a goddamned _doctor_ , she _knows_ the consequences.

But she likes being irresponsible, and she doesn’t get many chances to fuck things up, so.

 _Why do you need to know my name?_ she demands, seething.

 _Why do you refuse to tell me?_ he seethes right back. And then they’re just staring again, breathing heavy because they’re angry, and because just seconds ago _he’d been inside her_.

And then she snatches up her clothes, slips on her bathrobe, and marches back to her apartment. Raven’s there, marathoning _Firefly_ , and she makes room for Clarke on the couch. She doesn’t bother asking, and Clarke doesn’t try to explain. She _knows_ it’s fucked up, but.

She sort of likes being fucked up with him.

 

She doesn’t go back for four days. Four days, that’s how long she can hold out, _that’s_ what she’s been reduced to, and she shows up looking angry and awful and feeling pathetic.

He doesn’t show up at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke meets Bellamy at a wedding.

Technically, they met in that stupid fucking laundromat, but. Clarke meets Bellamy at a wedding, they shake hands and everything, and they try not to seem too shocked, and she just _knows_ he’s trying not to think about her naked and keening on the washing machine—she knows because she’s trying not to think about his dick heavy in her mouth just two weeks before.

It’s been two weeks. She’s wasted a lot of quarters, waiting for him to come back. She’s bitter about it.

They meet at a wedding. She knows the groom, Lincoln, as her favorite TA from university. They sometimes got together on weekends to see new art installments at the museum. Apparently, Bellamy’s the brother of the bride; a pretty, young brunette everyone affectionately calls _O_. It’s not her real name, Clarke is pretty sure, but she hasn’t heard anyone refer to her as anything else.

Raven was supposed to be her plus-one—she’d RSVPD with a plus-one, fully intending to bring Raven. They went dress shopping together, and coordinated outfits. It wasn’t difficult, since Raven only ever wears all-black, but still. They coordinated. They planned. They marked down two different meals. Raven took the day off work—which then turned out to be convenient, when she came down with strep throat the night before. So, Clarke yelled at her a little, made her two weeks’ worth of chicken noodle soup, and quarantined her into her bedroom before heading out to the wedding alone. After all, she’d missed Lincoln, and she’d already marked down the meal.

The wedding itself is pretty ordinary. It’s elegant, and quiet, and the ceremony itself is a lot quicker than she’s expecting. Bellamy walks his sister down the aisle, and she looks breathtaking, but he looks just as good, which is all sorts of unfair and only serves to make Clarke madder. She put a lot of effort into her hair for the night, because her hair tends to be impossible, but she’s wearing a thirty-dollar sundress and she probably could have done better. And she hates herself for thinking that, because why _should_ she? Bellamy certainly isn’t worth a sixty-dollar gown. So she pointedly stares at Lincoln the whole night, making faces whenever he glances over and giving herself extra points each time he almost laughs.

The reception reminds her a lot of her parents’ fifteenth wedding anniversary. Long tables, white table cloths, champagne and steak in a hotel reception hall. Bellamy makes a speech, and Clarke tries not to listen, but he’s an infuriatingly good speaker, which is just another thing she can hate.

He talks a little bit about their childhood, which she sort of gathers was _rough_ in a vague way, and he says their mother would be proud of her, just like he is. He tells a story about meeting Lincoln, and everyone laughs. O is crying before he’s finished. He toasts, they toast, everyone drinks. Clarke drinks a little more than she probably would have if _he_ hadn’t been there, but. The alcohol’s free, so really what do they expect?

She strikes up a conversation with the girl on her left—her name is Monroe, and she has short hair shaved into a fauxhawk, with tight braids on either side. She’s soft-spoken, and a little shy, and works as a personal assistant at a law firm. She’s friends with the bride, since childhood. Clarke shares stories about Lincoln, and in turn learns more about Octavia—that’s her whole name, just as strange as her brother’s—and Bellamy, to her chagrin. She hates that she’s interested in knowing more about him.

Apparently their mother died when they were kids, though Monroe doesn’t say how, which is understandable. She doesn’t mention their father, and Clarke doesn’t ask. Bellamy took custody of O at eighteen, when she was just twelve, and put her through high school and hairdressing lessons.

“She did mine last week,” Monroe turns her head sideways to show off the style. Clarke compliments the detail—it is fine work.

“I asked her to do my hair, but she had the nerve to say there wasn’t enough for her to work with,” jokes the man sitting across from them. He’s a little older, Clarke would guess twenty-six, with short cropped, blond hair and what could pass as a goatee.

“Wick,” he introduces himself, sticking out a hand. Clarke shakes it, and then Monroe. The three chat a while longer, until a shadow pours over Clarke’s emptied plate. Wick is looking behind her shoulder, curiously, and Clarke turns to follow his gaze.

Bellamy stands close enough to make her nearly shiver, but she clamps the impulse down, and frowns up at him.

He clears his throat. “Enjoying the party?” he asks. Clarke gives him a raised brow and glances around. Everyone is still making small talk and picking at their main courses. The DJ hasn’t even started his track list. She turns back to him.

“It’s one for the ages,” she says wryly. He smirks, and Monroe and Wick have politely turned back to each other in some sort of attempt at giving them privacy. Clarke appreciates it, but can tell they’re still sort of listening in.

Bellamy seems to think the same, because instead of responding, he glances to Monroe. “Monroe,” he smiles, “It’s been a while. How are you? Nice hair.”

Monroe grins happily, and Wick puts a hand to his chest in mock-pain. “What, I don’t get a _Nice hair, Wick_? Or even a hello?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I said hello to you this morning, when we woke up in your house. Lincoln’s back is still killing him, by the way. He wants you to know, your couch is shit.”

“I know,” Wick agrees happily. “It’s part of its charm.”

“Just like its owner,” Bellamy grins. Monroe catches Clarke’s eye with a raised brow, but Clarke doesn’t respond; she isn’t sure what to say. Why is he at her table, bantering with her neighbors?

“Nice speech,” she finally blurts, and Bellamy turns back to her in surprise. He looks almost—what, pleased? Proud? Is that a blush, or just the lighting? She hates that she hopes it’s the first. “Very _Father of the Bride_.”

“I was going more for _Cicero_ ,” he muses, “But I guess that’ll do.”

“So how do you two know each other?” Wick asks, waggling his fork between the pair. Clarke meets his eye and instantly flushes. She _hates_ being so pale. She can tell he’s trying not to laugh, and scowls.

“He likes to hoard all the good machines at my laundromat,” she explains. Bellamy snorts.

“ _Your_ laundromat? Wasn’t aware you owned the place, princess.”

Clarke turns her nose up haughtily at the nickname, fighting a grimace. It’s been years, she can joke about it; it’s not like he even knows the origin of that name, it’s just a coincidence. Probably. Though, she feels like she’s been dealt more than a few of those in one night. She should get a stamp card—she wonders what the quota is.

The DJ chooses that moment to start his track list, but stutters over his introduction when the mic cuts out and then on again. He’s young and wiry, and looks every bit like a wedding DJ should. He claims his name is JJ, which is just terrible and Clarke hopes it’s a pseudonym for his sake.

The bride and groom dance to some soft-rock cover of _Kiss From a Rose_ which, while predictable, is actually pretty sweet. Sometime during the song, the older woman sitting to Clarke’s left vacates her seat, and Bellamy instantly slinks in beside her. She thinks he’s going to make some snide remark or something, but he seems to have eyes only for his sister, which is—sweet. Infuriatingly.

Eventually the song ends—thank God—and it’s like a switch has been flipped. Guests pour out onto the dance floor, to some electronic dance number easily found at some underground rave. Wick jumps up dramatically, extending a hand to Monroe, who laughs and happily takes it.

Bellamy kicks at Clarke’s foot, which had been absently nodding along to the beat. She frowns at him, but he’s grinning—not smirking, which. Well, it’s new. She didn’t know his mouth could do that.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Clarke blurts out, and hates herself. For his part, Bellamy looks confused, and then surprised.

“I did,” he says. “The next day. And the one after that.” He gives a self-deprecating smile and half-shrugs, and Clarke hates herself for an entirely different reason. “After that, I got the picture.”

“No, I—” Clarke pauses, entirely unsure how to go about fixing this, whatever _this_ is. She knows she’s stubborn, and often speaks without thinking, _definitely_ acts without thinking, but she’s not too proud to admit when she’s being the asshole. Usually. And in this case, she’s definitely the asshole. “That was my fault. I didn’t go back for four days.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to laugh but is reigning it in, and she’s grateful. “Guess your self-control’s better than mine, Princess,” he grins.

And _that_ , that grin she recognizes. She swallows, hard. She’s at a _wedding_ — _his sister’s wedding_ —she should _not_ be thinking about dragging him out by his tie and fucking him in the coat closet.

Or any closet, really. She’s not picky, _clearly_. She’s pretty sure he’s caught onto her train of thought, because suddenly the soft brown of his eyes are bleeding into black and they’re trained on her mouth and she can’t help licking her lips—it’s his fault, really—and then he’s leaning in, and…

“Bell!” They both pull apart as if stung, which. Kind of. He turns towards the voice, and she follows suit if only to stop staring at his lips. The bride, his sister, Octavia. She’s grinning over at him, waving a hand to beckon him over. He grins instantly, silly and loving, and gives Clarke a quick glance.

She shakes her head quickly. “ _Go_ , it’s her wedding, seriously,” she orders, voice still a little shaky. She reaches for her champagne, only to frown when she finds that it’s empty. When did that happen?

Bellamy stands slowly, clearly reluctant to leave her on her own, which is sweet but altogether unnecessary; if anything, she really needs a moment to process everything about this night. But then, “Clarke! You too!” Lincoln is standing happily next to his wife, and when she gives him a discrete head shake, he just makes one of the faces she’d pulled during the wedding, and okay she kind of deserves that.

“What’s the matter, Princess?” Bellamy asks, towering above her. She has to crane her neck and squint to see him. He’s smirking again, the asshole. “Can’t dance?”

She huffs, standing so quickly her chair almost tips over before he catches it. She pretends not to notice, and pokes a finger at his chest. “Bellamy Blake, I will _dance circles_ around your ass!”

Okay, probably not the best declaration to make at a family-friendly reception, but he challenged her first.

Bellamy gives a half-grin-half-smirk, because his mouth has many different positions apparently, and _Jesus_ she shouldn’t be thinking about that mouth breathing hot against her cunt, but. She’s human, she hasn’t been laid in two weeks and she’s sort of drunk, so it’s sort of inevitable.

He grabs her hand and leads her out to the floor. The song is too fast to do the slow-sway-dance, so Clarke has to rely on other methods.

Namely, jumping. Also she works in a lot of _Saturday Night Fever_ moves, mostly ironically. She ropes Octavia and Monroe into the Twist, and sort of Wick, but he has even less coordination than her, so he mostly just flails around them. When all else fails, she breaks out the Macarena, and then grabs Bellamy’s hand and makes him twirl her around until she wants to vomit. So, yeah; she’s pretty sure she wins the dance-off.

“You cannot seriously say that what you just did was dancing,” Bellamy scoffs, handing her a bottle of water. She’s sprawled out in the first chair she’d stumbled to, and she probably shouldn’t be sitting like this in a dress, but she’s out of breath and still drunk, so she doesn’t care. She downs the water in a few gulps, and he calmly hands her another.

“I just danced _literal circles_ around you, Bellamy,” she argues, but there’s no bite to it. Now that she knows his name, she can’t seem to stop saying it. He hasn’t said hers since they were introduced, and she tries not to wonder if that means anything.

He grins down at the floor, like he doesn’t want her to see. She does, and she knows it’s for her, and she counts it a victory.

“Claaaaaaarke!” a voice whines from across the room. Her eyes are closed—when did that happen?—but she doesn’t have to open them to know that it’s Wick. “Blake! Clarke! Don’t tell me you’re giving up _now_ —we haven’t even done the electric slide, yet!”

Clarke huffs out a sigh and cracks an eye to glance at Bellamy, who’s looking at her with one eyebrow raised. “Looking to you, Princess,” he shrugs.

She sighs again, as if standing to do the electric slide is an enormous sacrifice, which—her head is still a little fuzzy, and her vision’s blurred around the edges, also her knees won’t do what she wants, so it sort of is. He laughs as she tries to do a toe-step-skip that seemed less complicated in her brain. He grips her elbow softly and steers her over to the group, taking their positions as the familiar tune starts up.

She’s apparently too drunk to master the turns completely, but sober enough to step on the heels of Bellamy’s shoes each time he ends up in front of her. When he shoots her a glare over his shoulder, she just fake-stumbles and mouths _sorry, drunk!_ He rolls his eyes and snaps the strap of her bra when they switch.

It’s nearing two in the morning when the party starts to wind down. The newlyweds have a mid-morning flight, so they’re the first to leave. Octavia dances with Bellamy to _Everything I Do_ , by Bryan Adams. Clarke tries not to stare, and instead spends the time playing paper football with a cocktail napkin, with Monroe, Wick and a sweet kid named Monty. She and Monroe win, of course, but it’s a close game. Wick’s probably better than both of them, but Monty’s pretty awful.

She dances with Lincoln to _Suspicious Minds_ , though that mostly just meant he swung her around and dipped her a lot, which was _awesome_. She dances with Wick and Monroe and Monty and a few other nameless guests for most of the night. She dances with Bellamy through _Faithfully_ , which is only a little awkward. Mostly they just sway in one spot, and she’s drunk and tired enough to lean pretty much her entire body weight on him, but he doesn’t say anything. He smells like soap but not cologne, which is refreshing. She still sort of dimly wants a reason to hate him, but she’s not actively searching for one, anymore.

When Octavia and Lincoln leave, she loses Bellamy in the throng of friends trying to say their goodbyes. She’s not exactly trying to avoid him, but she pretty much figures this is the best chance she’ll get to slip out quickly and go home. She’s pretty tired, and Raven was right about the shoes; her feet are killing her. She’d been too stubborn to take them off to dance, like all the other girls, and now she’s paying for it.

She’s collecting her jacket and purse from the coat check, when she feels someone lean up against her. It’s a familiar gesture, and she knows immediately who it is.

“Not even gonna leave me a slipper?” he jokes, voice low and close to her ear. She bites back a shiver.

“You can have both; my feet are killing me,” she says mildly, studying him. The arousal never really went away, just faded, but she’s fairly exhausted; she’s pretty sure that even if he propositions her, she’ll just fall asleep on his dick.

He grins fondly down at her, and she doesn’t really know what to do with that, so she snatches her things and waves a quick _Bye!_ at him before turning.

He tugs her back by her elbow, and she stumbles a little bit—still drunk, remember?—but he steadies her quickly. “Where’s your phone?” he demands.

She stares up at him a little stupidly, and probably pulling an even more stupid face. “Huh?”

He digs through her purse without another word, and she’s faintly aware that there are _things_ in that purse she should be embarrassed about—like tampons and condoms and maybe some half-melted jolly ranchers she keeps meaning to throw out—but she’s too drunk/tired to really care. He finds her phone eventually, muttering absently about _stupid lady clutter_ as he types something in. He finishes, gingerly puts it back in her bag, and then gives her that grin again.

She’s about to say something snarky, like, _What, no door-to-door searches?_ , when he ducks down and shoves his tongue in her mouth so deep she can feel his moan down to her toes. It’s long and wet and warm and now he’s _moving_ his tongue, in and out, and they are in the hotel lobby, for Christ’s sake, but all she can think is maybe she’s not so tired, after all.

But then they break away, and she’s a little lightheaded now, and he’s still smiling down at her, and there’s spit on his lower lip that she probably put there. “Sweet dreams, Princess.” His voice is low and pleased and just a little bit wrecked and that’s just fucking unfair.

She knows she won’t be able to keep her words straight so she doesn’t even try, just nods blurrily and then hurries out to catch a taxi.

She remembers to check her phone on the ride home, and sees that she’s sent out a text to an unknown number.

_girl-who-eye-fucked-me-at-wedding: so what are u doing friday_

Clarke laughs, a little exasperated because who even texts like that; they’re not thirteen years old. She tells him as much, and then saves his number as SHITDICK. He texts back within the minute.

SHITDICK: im 13yrs on the inside thats what matters

And then,

SHITDICK: so u want my virginity or wat

Clarke: I’m saving myself until marriage.

SHITDICK: o shit, wrong number :/

Clarke: Asshole.


End file.
